The Judge
by DreamScar01
Summary: I'm such a band nerd. But I wrote this short story because it was such a dream of mine to be in a huge band that awed everyone I'm in a very small band . Yeah, I'm weird. I completely admit it.


The Judge wrote his final comments on the last band's critique papers. He gulped a swig of coldish strong coffee and chewed on a tooth pick. _Which band was next...? _He looked at the listings of the bands. _Oh. Westerville Central Marching Band._ He sucked the last molecules of coffee from his teeth. It was too early in the season to go though this. He looked out over the bright glowing bleachers, and across the football field. The band was smaller this season. He sighed and leaned back into his chair_. Ah, yes. Westerville Central. I remember this band. They won the participation award last year. But they were good enough for state competition. Let's see if they still are. _He quaffed down more coffee and picked up a pencil.

It was the same with all of these smallish bands. They weren't as thrilling and impressive as the larger bands. They didn't have the big wonderful sounds that carried all across the field. They didn't have big forms and exciting visuals. They were all mediocre. Generally. Would Westerville Central be this way? Most likely. _It could be different this year_, a voice inside his head whispered. _They have potential. Perhaps today they will demonstrate it._

_Possibly_, he answered the voice. _But not likely._ The voice said nothing.

"Westerville Central, you may now take the field for placement and or warm up," The announcer said into the speaker.

The band placed the starting drill.

The drum majors counted six dead beats.

For a few moments it seemed like nothing was really happening except movement and changing of forms. But the pit was playing. He blinked and sighed again. And then it happened. Suddenly, out of now where, out of the misty night came the wall of sound from the band that shook the bleachers, the ground and the entire press box. What? What was this? Was this Westerville Central? Impossible. They were too small to have such a sound. And yet the sound continued, and crescendoed into a brilliant musical story of flight. He shook himself and started writing. But he couldn't. He was spellbound by this band. I don't believe it. How is a small little band like this able to pull of such a thing? Oh, what am I saying? He started writing feverishly, still not believing what he heard. He was only the music judge, but he couldn't help but notice their forms and marching technique…or their color guard, or drum line. He stole a quick glance at the other judges…all of them – the auxiliary, marching, and drum line judge – were spellbound. Perhaps they would have expected something like this from another very large band but not a small band.

The sound continued, which was nicely balanced between all sections, then, with out warning, the sound dropped. What happened? Was the first number finished? Already? He thought rapidly. But then a gigantic crescendo hit the press box like a roaring semi truck and electrocuted the audience.

And then the cut off from the drum majors struck, and after the transition, the second piece started. It was a lovely, smooth piece, which clearly demonstrated the band ability to stagger breathe.

This was not the only thing. The second slower piece was always a downfall of marching bands. But not this band. Obvious exaggeration toes rose and fell in roll steps above the grass. Every foot was once again on top of the beat, it was almost like the drum majors were following the band rather than the band trying to follow the drum majors. The color guard's bright rainbow-blue flags floated gracefully about in and among the forms, in perfect unity, as the band once again crescendoed. It made the judge get weird but pleasant flutters in his stomach, it was deliciously chilling, in some sort of heavenly way. One could easily imagine a dove or swan gliding gracefully into the pocket of light in the opening of clouds, with beams of soft light pouring down on the earth, forming pools of marvelous glowing sunlight. How could all of this form in one's mind from just a band playing on an artificially lighted stadium? He kept writing with all ferventness…the second number had awed the crowd, almost like a lullaby, all were amazed. All were spellbound. No one said anything, not even the other bands seated on the visitors' side of the field. The second number ended. And amazingly with no mistakes. Sure, no band was perfect and there were a few out-of-steppers but, the middle slow song was always a downfall of marching bands. But not the Central band. Definitely not the Central band.

The third song started, with amazing acuteness. It was exciting and rapturous to watch this band. How infinitely lame all the other bands were compared to this one. But the size of the band was what most struck him. What motivated them so, to play and march like this? This was a hobby with some people or a thing you had to do if you played an instrument, but somehow it was not this way for the Central band. It was as is they left all their worries, cares, and discomforts of band on the side lines. Now they were one. Now they had become one band. Perfectly in unison.

Their show ended. Sadly. Very sadly. I want more! thought the judge. I have to see more of this band.

Soon the scores were tallied, easily. According to the Central band's records, they hadn't qualified for state competitions yet. Even though this was their third competition. What had changed them so? The judge stopped asking questions, and wrote down everything that he remembered about the show - which wasn't hard. This band had certainly proved themselves worthy of going to state competitions. they had the grit of an army of vulgar Huns, the strength and momentum of a thousand wild horses and the determination of a relentless cheetah.

Yes, this band was going to states. There was no doubt about it.


End file.
